


Terrible People

by ConceptaDecency



Series: Post-Canon Cardassia Sitcom [4]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bickering, Humor, Humour, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Post-Canon Cardassia Sitcom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/pseuds/ConceptaDecency
Summary: It's the most wonderful day of the Cardassian year, but Garak is in a mood. What more appropriate way to celebrate the holidays than bickering with your nearest and dearest?A post-canon Cardassia story set in an AU where Mila didn't die and Julian and Garak see her regularly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas has not been conducive to writing on my current work in progress, [ The Pool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682452/chapters/39121669), but it did provide some inspiration for this silly thing. And in plenty of time for Orthodox Christmas!

“Are you nearly ready, Julian?” Garak checked himself once again in the mirror by the apartment door, where he’d been standing for several minutes already. “We’re late.” 

They were not late, nor were they running late. They would be late if they didn’t leave in the next five minutes, but as it stood now they were not late and Garak had no right to be sanctimonious just because he already had his shoes and coat on. 

“Just about," said Julian from the stair, where he sat changing his footwear. "I’ve only got to put on my shoes and get the kanar.”

“Putting on your shoes and getting the kanar is not ‘just about’.”

“Hmmmph. It absolutely is.” Jaw set in annoyance, Julian collected the ornate silver and purple bag containing a bottle of dresket, a thick blue kanar traditionally served at this time of year, from the side table. “There. I’m ready. Let’s go.” 

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into going to hers. She’s a terrible cook. We could have had her over here, like last year,” Garak grumped as the door swished shut behind them.

“She wanted to have us. She said it only made sense that we alternate years, and I agree with her.”

“I’m outnumbered, then.” 

“Yes. Yes, you are. What’s put you in such a mood?”

“I’m not in a mood.”

“Fine, you’re not in a mood. Where are we picking up the cake, Hokat’s or Kezeni’s?” 

Garak sighed. “It’s not a cake, Julian. It’s...”

“ _Zvzsda_.” Julian stumbled over the name of the traditional Solstice dessert of the service classes that, frankly, he tended to avoid mentioning because it was so difficult to pronounce. “I know, I know. So? Which way?” They had stepped out into the late morning sun. It was still warm enough for Julian not to require an outer layer, but Garak shivered and flipped his collar up. 

“Kezeni’s,” said Garak, starting in the direction of the confectioner in question. 

“Great.” Julian followed, hoping that his response had sounded just the right amount of sarky. Garak was certainly in a mood, and for who knew what reason. He normally enjoyed visiting Mila, and tolerated her cooking, claiming, to her face, that he was more than willing to endure it in exchange for her company. They were very alike, Garak and his mother, and would trade affectionate barbs and political discussions over lunch, then at dessert commence the reminiscences and what Julian had eventually realised was shop talk, all the while playing cards and enjoying kanar and some dry, dusty Cardassian sweet or other. 

“Care to tell me what’s bothering you?” Julian easily caught up with Garak and fell into step beside him.

“Julian, I told you. Nothing is bothering me.”

“Uh huh. That’s why you’re being so charming this morning?” 

Garak was certainly allowed to be in a mood if he wanted to, but Julian was sure as hell not willing to be unfairly sniped at. He knew from experience that the best way to lift Garak from these cranky moods was to annoy him into talking. It usually wasn’t pretty, but Julian had long ago not only accepted but embraced the fact that he could annoy for England. And, anyway, they had to talk about _something_ on the short walk to Mila’s by way of Kezeni’s Family Bakery. 

“I’m the same as I am every morning.”

“Is that so? Yesterday morning you couldn't stop talking about Shrosti's new enigma tale. Actually, I think _you_ were nearly late for work." Julian jabbed Garak in the ribs, pointedly, with his finger. 

"Julian, you really aren't as funny as you think you are."

"If you were in better spirits you'd realise that I'm exactly as funny as I think I am." Privately Julian thought this was actually true. "Anyway, my point is that _this_ morning you're behaving completely differently. Are you sure your rokassa juice was caffeinated?"

"Really, Julian, are you going to continue like this inside Kezeni's? Do I have to go in by myself?"

They had reached the door of the bakery, a small family business formerly situated, as Julian understood it, on the ground floor, but, due to various post-Fire problems with sewage, vermin, and who knew what else, now relocated one floor up in the same building. Julian was tempted to say that yes, he _was_ going to continue like this in Kezeni's if Garak was going to be so stubborn, but decided to defer to Garak, as he usually did, on correct Cardassian behaviour in public. It was a complex dance and even if Julian suspected that Garak fell on the more...traditional side when it came to what was and was not acceptable, he was certainly aware that arguing with one's partner in public was considered extremely gauche. 

"Fine, I'll be good," he agreed, and they proceeded up the stairs, bypassing the tiny lift. Garak really was in a mood, and Julian doubted anything would change before they arrived at Mila's. However. There was no way Mila Garak would tolerate a mood, not from her son and not on Solstice. Julian knew that for this predicament he'd soon have a dedicated sister-in-arms. Or practically-mother-in-law-in-arms, which was even better. Julian allowed himself a private smirk as they stepped into the sweet warm air of Kezeni's.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Garak are prevented from getting to Mila's. Unfortunately. Because lunch at her place sounds pretty great.

Garak and Julian emerged from Kezeni’s with the _zvzsda_ in a delicate festive box that dangled from Garak’s hand on silver strings. The atmosphere of the bakery had been cheerful. Locals gathered with friends and neighbours to welcome the Solstice with a glass of dresket before collecting their own _zvzsdan_ and moving on to their own family lunches. The merriment had rubbed off on Garak not one iota, however. As they started down the stairs he remained uncharacteristically quiet. Julian was wondering if the stairwell was sufficiently private to begin needling him into a better mood again when Garak threw up a hand to bodily prevent him from advancing down the stairs.

“Julian, stop,” he hissed.

Julian stopped. Dead. Garak was peering down through the window, eyes locked on whatever or whoever it was in the street that had given cause for alarm. Relief efforts had improved things by leaps and bounds, but Cardassia remained a dangerous place, and reminders that this was so showed themselves at the oddest times. There were still enemies around from Garak’s Obsidian Order days, still pockets of hazardous gas and explosives lying undiscovered under rubble, or unsecured chunks of building that could crumble and fall to the streets below. Most alarming of all was an emerging wave of xenophobic sentiment whose hotheaded adherents opposed even the presence of offworlders and could pose a very real threat to any they encountered in the streets. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t care to speak to that old man.”

Julian knew he should feel relief, and he did. His whole body relaxed. But he couldn’t help but think how a spot of real danger might just have snapped Garak out of his funk. Instead, he now had even more to be grumpy about.

“Which old man?” This being the neighbourhood where Garak had grown up, there were several he was acquainted with. “The one who thinks I’m Bajoran?” He was the worst of the lot, an ignorant old dotard who seemed to think Julian was some kind of toy Garak had brought back with him from Bajor and spoke with polite condescension to both of them, as if Julian were a lesser being and Garak quite to be pitied for not being able to find a Cardassian to settle down with. The last time they'd encountered him, he'd been full of praise for Garak at having convinced his 'Bajoran...friend' to remove his earring.

“No. Sterpan. The one who likes you.” 

Ah. Somehow, that was worse. The old man had been to Earth in his youth and liked to practice his few words of Standard with Julian every chance he got. He was kind but unfortunately had a tendency to drink and to latch on and regale them with the same stories of his three months amongst the humans every time, and in a particularly impenetrable, convoluted manner that allowed little opportunity for interruption. 

“Let’s wait til he leaves.” Julian stepped down to join Garak at the landing window. In the street below Sterpan stopped to clumsily adjust his jacket in the wind. Then he began a slow amble in the direction of home. Unfortunately, it was also the direction of Mila’s home.

“Two more minutes,” said Garak. “Then we can safely follow him.” 

Julian nodded. Garak’s Obsidian Order training could be useful in social situations. Or in avoiding them. They watched as the old man doddered and wove, fighting the wind and his own inebriation to traverse the broken path. Passersby had to swerve to avoid him as he lurched unpredictably from side to side. Then, out of the crowd, emerged a second old man, a person Julian did not recognise but Sterpan clearly did. Laughing, they greeted each other like old friends, slapping each other on the arms in the Cardassian style, and settled in right there on the street to begin, as soon became abundantly clear, an extended catch-up session.

"Elim, we're going to be late if he doesn't get moving soon. Can't we just walk past him while he's distracted?" 

"You know we can't, Julian," said Garak, and Julian did. It would be exceedingly rude to walk past someone you knew on the street, particularly an elder, without stopping to greet them. To do so would be to send a message the complexity of which Julian didn't fully grasp, but which amounted to a snubbing of epic proportions, with far-reaching social implications whose precise meaning depended on a thousand subtle factors such as hand gesture, facial expression, and walking speed. Julian had seen Garak snubbed by his fellow Cardassians a few times on Deep Space Nine, and though Garak had tried to hide it, Julian could tell that he was shaken every time. No, just walking by was not an option.

"Mila's not going to be happy," Julian groused.

"Mila will be fine. She's very resilient."

True. She was far from delicate. Though it had only been after an embarrassingly long time — several months of regular lunches — that Julian realised that Mila Garak had been as much an agent of the Obsidian Order as her son. Ever since then he’d been more alert than ever to the subtext of their conversation, though they could be hard to follow, as they would usually forgo the Universal Translator and mother and son tended to use the dialect of the service-class between themselves. It was very easy and pleasant to zone out, carried away by the soft buzzes and hums of a sort of version of Kardasi honed by its speakers over generations to be unobtrusive such that it would go unnoticed by their betters. Especially when he was full of food and kanar and concentrating on his cards. But every once in a while some revelation or fact or interesting piece of trivia about Garak’s past would surface, and Julian was damned if he was going to miss out on those little treasures. This reason alone was enough to make him look forward to lunches with Mila. 

The last time they’d eaten at Mila’s he’d almost dismissed an inside joke, as it turned out, thinking he’d misheard. The comm unit had chimed and Mila had checked the screen. "Hmmm, it's your husband," Mila had said, or Julian thought she had said, in Dialect. Garak had snorted and they’d gone on to discuss the person calling, either an old neighbour or an old Order contact, or both, from what Julian could discern, before Mila had taken the comm unit to another room to answer it.

"'Your husband'?" he'd repeated in Dialect. He’d turned to Garak, then switched to Standard. "Did I understand correctly? What does that mean?"

Garak had made a show of rearranging his cards. “It’s just one of those old family jokes, dear. If I tried to explain it, it would no doubt make even less sense.”

Julian’s interest had been piqued by Garak’s fake nonchalance. If Garak was trying to dissuade him there was definitely something interesting going on there.

“Elim. Do you expect me to believe that you couldn’t easily explain it to me if you wanted to? And besides, how am I not family at this point?” 

“Of course he’s family.” Mila’s words, in barely-accented Standard, made Julian jump. She had swept back into the room, silently, just as her son was wont to do. “Really, Elim!” 

“And what did Mok have to say, Mila?” said Garak mildly, in Kardasi, as if he had not just been admonished by his mother. 

“I don’t know how you put up with him, Julian,” Mila continued in Standard, before turning to Garak. “Nothing of any importance.” Julian doubted that was true. “She says hello.” 

“Courteous as always. I hope you'll convey my warmest regards the next time you speak to her.” 

“Mmmmm, yes, she'll be glad to hear from you." And with that the coded exchange was over. Mila produced a hand-sized PADD from her skirt pocket. "Let me show you what we were talking about, *ukari*." ‘Son-in-law’, or to be more specific, ‘my only son's husband, for whom I have fond affection,’. An arch provocation aimed at Garak, given that they weren’t actually married. 

"Now, Mila, he doesn't need to see that." Garak's voice had a tone similar to the one he had used in his shopkeeper days to persuade difficult customers that no, that cut really was not flattering. 

"'Needs and musts, said the senator'," Mila quipped in Dialect, leaving the rest of the aphorism unfinished as she tapped at the PADD. Julian made a mental note to ask Garak what that meant later. Service Dialect was rich with cryptic half-spoken sayings that made little sense without context. "Does he keep other things from you, Julian?" Mila tutted, in Standard again, as if it was the first time the topic had come up. It was not. With Mila's input and despite Garak's protests (often performative, Julian was sure), Julian had put together a very colourful picture of the childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood of Elim Garak. It couldn't all be true, of course. Garak had clearly learned how to embroider more than just fine fabrics at his mother's knee. But even though some of the stories directly contradicted others, it couldn't all be false, either. And besides, occasionally Mila produced hard evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened at Mila's that's making Garak so grumpy? And how long will they be stuck in that stairwell? 
> 
> I love your kudos and comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Why is Garak so peeved? We’ll soon find out. 
> 
> It would be a gift if you'd kudos and comment!


End file.
